


Cold Pressing AU: Base Chapter.4

by Alex_Quine



Series: Cold Pressing AU [4]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, M/M, Mpreg, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-09
Updated: 2014-12-09
Packaged: 2018-02-28 19:06:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2743772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alex_Quine/pseuds/Alex_Quine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boromir returns to Minas Tirith seven years late and not alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Pressing AU: Base Chapter.4

It had been close to eight years since Boromir had travelled alone and whilst his heart beat heavy at the prospect of his journey’s end, there was pleasure too in the freedom to set his own bearing across country. 

His first evening was spent in a small lodge that Aragorn had built as a retreat and for hunting in the White Mountains. He was making for Edoras and then the Gap of Rohan, but Celond had asked that he sleep as many nights under a proper roof as he was able. The caretaker made him welcome, opened up a room for him, and Boromir saw to his horses before settling down for the night.

As he unpacked his bedroll a slip of wine-dark silk fluttered from out of its folds and when he unbound the little package, he found within it a tiny knot of hair tied with silk thread. The knot entwined two dark curls, one baby soft, the other harsher, threaded with silver and Boromir wondered if this delicate thing was Arwen’s work. 

In the morning, he carefully followed Celond’s guidance, taking the time with oil and honey to prepare his body for another day’s exertion, but his thoughts roamed as he worked, thinking on those he had left behind. As he readied to leave, he took up the little package again and pinned it inside the breast of his shirt. He would come home to them, to love them as was allowed to him. 

The journeying over the coming weeks was easy for the most part, the weather fair enough. Although Eomer King was from home, Edoras welcomed him graciously. That evening he went to Theodred’s grave and offered a warrior’s tears for the young man he had last seen racing his cousin across the plains. On the morrow, he was offered remounts and took them gladly, riding out from the gates, with the wind at his back and a clear path before. 

Along the Old South Road he travelled, taking in as he went homes rebuilt and signs of renewal that cheered his mood. It was as he crossed the Greyflood onto The Greenway, and neared the borders of the Shire, that fear began to knaw at him again and he had to force himself to ride forward with as much pace as before. His beasts seemed to sense his mood and would have turned for home, but Boromir dragged in great breaths and drove them on. 

At the fork in the road that led to the Sarn Ford, he branched right, travelling North. Having come so far, he would not presume that Frodo would wish to look in his face, and determined to send word from Bree – a simple request to visit. Should Frodo refuse him, he would at least travel on to see Merry and Pippin and deliver the messages and remembrances he had been entrusted with. 

If Barliman Butterbur, host at The Prancing Pony, was surprised by the quality of the horseman at his door he did not show it and merely beckoned forward a gaping groom, and ushered Boromir to his best bedroom, which had a large fireplace and a window seat with a view along the main street. Certainly, he could have messages sent into The Shire. To Bag-End and Brandy Hall? Nothing easier, the man would set out at first light and now if he might suggest some supper for his lordship? In truth, Boromir would have preferred a chamber further removed from the noise of the taproom and it was a struggle to make the landlord understand his request for hot water to wash in, but the food had been good and his aged warrior’s body ached for once for the comfort of a feather bed. 

In the morning a light rain was falling as Boromir passed two sealed notes to a youth mounted on a skinny pony, with a silver coin passed privately for the lad himself. Frodo’s reply came three days later, by which time Boromir was heartily sick of The Prancing Pony and he opened the folded note with urgent fingers, his eyes momentarily blurring the words. Frodo would meet him. He was to leave his horses at the Green Dragon in Bywater and come to Bag-End. 

That night, although he drank sparingly, he lingered over his ale. Hunched in the window seat, he did not light the candles at all, allowing the dark to sweep over him. Sick dread, gripping his chest with a cruel pain like none he had felt in many years, filled him up with loathing for the man he had become, who had hidden from this reckoning. 

As he rode towards Hobbiton the next day, Boromir came to see why the Hobbits had such pride in their land. Fertile and well-loved fields stretched before him. He thought the people fitted its rolling green hills, their homes snug into the curves of the land, and if recent troubles meant that there were few old trees or ancient hedgerows to be seen, everywhere there was planting, wild flowers as well as crops. 

At The Green Dragon inn, he left the horses grazing in a paddock and repacked his gear to take only the barest essentials, along with the gifts and letters, in a large satchel slung across his body. With directions from the landlord he began trudging the short distance towards Hobbiton. He could see the smoke of its chimneys up ahead and rising in the centre, the mound of Bag-End that he recognised from the Hobbits’ stories of old. 

The road seemed to mock him, taking an age to wind itself down the valley and up and around the hill, until he found himself standing by a small wooden gate, before a short flight of steps up to a round green door. As he looked down to find the latch of the gate, he heard the door creak and straightened up to see Frodo standing in the opening. The hobbit beckoned slightly and then turned on his heel and disappeared. 

Slowly Boromir climbed the steps, ducked his head to pass the threshold and entered Bag-End. Carefully avoiding the roof-beams, he swung the satchel from around his body and set it down in the tiled entrance hall. He could not see Frodo anywhere and wondered whether to close the door or not, but then up ahead, a small figure silhouetted against a burst of sunlight, said “You can close it, Boromir. I thought we might speak in the study. Come through.” 

Half-crouching, Boromir followed Frodo through inter-linking round rooms, until they stopped in a cluttered study, with a sloped writing desk. The leaded windows were open to the mid-day sun and Boromir could smell lavender and the cinnamon of old-fashioned pinks. Frodo sat down at the chair in front of the desk and motioned Boromir to a window seat beside it. 

The two studied one another for a while. Frodo could readily see the history of hardship across Boromir’s face and thought him weary, whilst to Boromir the Hobbit looked if anything younger, but somehow more fragile. 

“The news of your return to Minas Tirith reached the Shire some months back. We were all glad. I had hoped you might come.”

Boromir had prepared no words against this day, but slipped from the seat to his knees, which seemed to him like the only proper attitude for him, faced with the Ringbearer. On his knees Boromir of Gondor humbly begged forgiveness of Frodo and thought that in his huge eyes he saw more understanding than he deserved, and when Frodo asked him to think back to those dark times, to try to remember how he had felt, he willingly stripped bare a memory that had festered deep within him, struggling to voice the doubt and fear that had overwhelmed his best endeavours to uphold his vows to the Fellowship. 

“It was as though all I valued was slipping from my grasp and scorching my hands as it flowed from me; every good thought shrivelling, every hope as ash. I fought…with all the strength I had once thought enough and it flowed from me like sand and I was sinking, dry dust filling my mouth so I could not cry for help…and then I was too proud to try any more. I had been chosen for the task and I was a husk, a dead thing.” Boromir’s head sank onto his chest. 

After a short pause, Frodo placed chilled fingers onto Boromir’s clasped hands. He spoke quietly and as though with knowledge hard won and heavy to bear.

“You were groomed for your role by your father from birth, primed with duty that carried fear alongside it. Gondor lived with the shadow at its gates for so long and your family and your people paid a heavy price for keeping faith with the world of men. 

In the Shire, we knew nothing of Rings or Mordor and tended our fields, brewed our ale and hobbit-holes hid us from greater evils than just the heat of a Summer sun. Yet the Ring came to us, to Bilbo and then to me. Perhaps it needed folk who had not been weakened by past sorrow and present dread to fight against it? 

So many dark times came to us. When Gandalf was lost in Moria I despaired, but he fell through fire and ice to come back, to aid us, stronger than before – only I did not know it then.” 

Frodo paused to catch his breath and Boromir wondered at the frail strength of him. 

“I heard you Boromir, on Amon Hen, I heard you cry out to me, the sorrow in your voice and your grief was like a warning that I must do this alone. 

In truth, I do not know if we would have succeeded if the Fellowship had not divided that day, but I know that it did divide and we won through and in the struggle many fine things that were thought lost were found good again. Men and elves have fought together one last time, the King has come into his own, and the Dead sleep.” 

All afternoon the two sat and gravely teased apart dark memories. At one point Frodo looked away from Boromir’s gaze and his hands seemed to tremble. Then he asked, “Boromir, were you ever with your father when he used the Palantir?” “Twice,” he replied. Frodo could see a shadow cross the man’s face. “I did not look into it, but it brought a dread chill to the room that reached into you.” Frodo sat silent for a few moments. “It is everything Boromir, a burning hunger and so sweet, so much terrible hope in it. At the last, I was taken by the Ring and paid with my body, but if you had not carried me from Moria." He paused, as if choosing his words carefully. "If we had met at the end of the war, at the coronation of the King, I would not have known you as I do now, when I understand wounds that work inwards through the years. But we have met again in quieter and in wiser times.” He wrapped his arms as far around the man’s chest as he could reach and hugged him close, saying, “I call you true friend, Boromir of Gondor, and there is to be no more sorrow between us.” 

At this, Boromir bent his head to the hobbit’s shoulder and closed tear-filled eyes and so they remained for some minutes. He had one hand laid to his breast and as they broke apart Frodo looked at him curiously. 

“Boromir,” he asked, “are you in pain?”

Boromir hesitated and then reached in and brought out the little package. He unwrapped it carefully to display the knot and as Frodo stretched forth a stubby finger to touch it, he began to explain to Frodo what it meant.

Frodo looked at him with wonder and a little sadness, saying “The enchantment is fading from this world, Boromir. The White Ship will sail soon and I must be on it, but I should have liked a child. This was a great gift. I think you must tell Aragorn, for the magic was of his making too.” 

Boromir was doubtful, seeing too many difficulties ahead, but he did not argue the point. Frodo would keep his secret, as he would that of Frodo’s leaving. Now Frodo took him through to the big kitchen to make some tea, and the friends moved to simple talk of old companions, until a hammering and a commotion at the front door announced the arrival of Merry and Pippin, bubbling over with excitement and bearing an assortment of bottles, flasks and savoury-smelling parcels that appeared to entirely cover the back of a pony standing by the gate. 

They hurled themselves at Boromir bearing him onto his back on the floor, where a tickle fight began that threatened to re-arrange the Bag-End furnishings. As Frodo protested and they picked themselves up, Pippin whisked out the door to the pony again, and Merry brushed himself down, trying to look more dignified. “He’s walking out with Diamond of Long Cleeve,” Merry told Boromir, “and it’s making him seem permanently tipsy.”

The first round of hugging and hilarity had barely finished when Sam came up the garden path, with Rosie and their brood, which began another round of embracing and introductions and then Boromir had to distribute all the gifts and letters in his bag. 

Boromir had feared facing Sam, almost more than Frodo himself, but whilst the company fussed over the children, Frodo drew Sam to him. As Sam listened to Frodo, he stared at Boromir who was laughing softly, his infant son held close in the man’s huge arms, and saw suffering and love reflected in the scarred face. ‘I reckon he’s glad to be amongst friends, Samwise, so you bid him welcome,’ he thought and bustled forward, to kiss his wife, his babe and the top of Boromir’s blonde head, before beginning to organise Pippin’s laying of the dinner table more efficiently. 

The night was long and merry with tales and many toasts and Boromir ended by sleeping on the floor of Frodo’s study. The house was quiet the next morning when he stepped out for a breath of air and to see Hobbiton in daylight, and came upon Sam, hoeing between his rows of potato plants. The two fell into a discussion about soils and Boromir told him of his hopes for the Harlond orchards. 

“You need to put bee skips between the rows,” said Sam firmly, “to help with the work at blossom time.”

“Have no fear of that, Master Gamgee. The bees are dear to me,” replied Boromir, “for I owe them much.” And he found himself, much to his surprise, telling Sam about the Warg attack, peeling off his shirt so that Sam could see the fading scars on his chest. Sam nodded, adding his own account of how they had treated Frodo’s wounds. 

Some days later, as Boromir went to take his leave of them, he found Sam pressing a damp bundle wrapped in sacking into his hands, with an injunction to keep the base of it moist.

“Apple tree seedlings from the Gaffer’s plot, Lord Boromir. They’ll give you the best cider apples in Gondor…and fast growing too,” he said proudly, “Your son won’t have to wait for old age to see the first pressing. And remember,” he added, “You talk to your bees. They like to know what’s a-going on.” 

The journey homeward was both lighter and wearisome. Boromir ached to see Aragorn and their son. He had thought on Frodo’s words, but could only imagine difficulties ahead and remembered his promise to Arwen. In Edoras, Eomer, indignant that he had missed him on the outward journey, held a feast of such riotous good humour for his sister husband’s brother that Boromir left the next day late into the afternoon, set on a quiet few miles to clear his head. 

It was as he swung west along the flank of the White Mountains towards home that he began to feel that he was no longer alone in the landscape. There were scattered settlements to be sure and the odd parties of hunters with whom to exchange a few words, but on more than one evening he was sure his camp was watched. 

The countryside was considered peaceful these days and Boromir had gone lightly armed. Celond had forbidden him the use of his long sword and heavy shield, but he carried the short bow with which he was reckoned a useful shot and the long knife of a street fighter. When he heard some rustling around his fire that night, he rose quietly, notched an arrow in the bowstring and struck out from the light to make a sweep around his camp, starting with the tethered lines where his horses stood, heads down, seemingly undisturbed. 

As he stood silent in the darkness, he had all but decided that the rustling was some small forest creature when the faint tang of pipeweed drifted to his nostrils and coming from the direction of his own campfire. As he emerged once again into the light, he found two tall, cloaked and hooded Rangers lounging by his fire, feet stretched out and one of them apparently finishing off his roast hare.

“Since when did Rangers stoop to taking food unasked?” he enquired, advancing toward them, one hand to the knife hilt. The Ranger with the hare, stopped eating and leant towards his companion.

“You know, Sire, brotherly love stands for little these days.” Faramir pushed back his hood in time to receive a crushing embrace from Boromir, whilst Aragorn sucked contentedly on his pipe, grinning at them all the while. 

Boromir was loathe to let his brother go, and his smile was as wide as it was warm, “Glad I am to see you both!” Aragorn inclined his head graciously, “but you have taken my supper.” “This is true, brother,” said Faramir wresting himself from Boromir’s embrace and going to pick up a bulging pack on the ground. “We hope to make amends.” And he unpacked bread, a cheese, a plump meat pie, a stone bottle of ale and a flask, from which he poured Boromir a share into a silver thimble. “Miruvor! Where did you find this?” Boromir felt the liquor slide down inside him, wrap itself around his innards, stroke and warm them and then explode in a burst of golden flowers on his tongue. “I have a little saved,” said Aragorn, “for special occasions.” 

“Have you been shadowing me for the last three days?” Boromir asked as Aragorn stretched forward to take up a morsel of cheese.   
“No, Allane has been with you. Safe home Allane!” he called out and “Safe home!” came back from the darkness. The men settled around the fire with their food and Boromir asked gruffly, his speech muffled in pie, “How’s the lad been doing?”

“Well. School is closed for the Harvest break, so we sent him to visit Nan. Legolas is going with him and he’s planning to teach Arin to ride. He’s grown, Boromir.” Aragorn smiled and Boromir swallowed hard and nodded. 

Hunger sated, the three sat and talked over the events of the last few weeks across Middle Earth. Boromir told them some of his exchange with Frodo, although most of it would stay hidden in his heart, and he passed on to them letters from the hobbits. As he watched them break the seals and skim the pages, Boromir asked, “And did you come all this way to bring me in safe, or were you homesick for the Ranger life?”

Aragorn looked up. “There was that.” He glanced at Faramir, who was watching them, adding “However, also we wished to put a case to you – or at least offer a choice to you.”

Faramir spoke, his voice warm. “We wondered if you had thought more on the Healer’s words?” Boromir glanced at Aragorn whose eyes told him that he was cared for come what might, and turned to his brother. “I have had long hours to wrestle with this brother and I am resolved. I will try his way and soon.” 

Aragorn picked up a stick and poked the dying embers of the fire into a brief blaze that sparked and flared. “This will be a trial.” He raised his eyes to Boromir’s face. “We would help as best we might and had thought that a retreat away from the bustle of the city might be welcome. I have opened up the hunting lodge and Celond and his assistant are there now. We will reach it tomorrow. At the least you may speak with him further.” 

For a moment Boromir’s breath seemed to catch in his throat, for this was come upon him unawares, but a little reflection and he saw the good of it. He could avoid the gaze of the curious around the Houses of Healing and Arin would not have to see his father sick a-bed. The thought that if all should fall awry he would never see the child again brought him up short and Faramir, studying his face closely, said, “He is less than a day’s ride away.” Boromir looked at them both. “I will go to the lodge.” Aragorn threw his stick into the fire, “We will go together.”

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been edited from its first posting. It was originally written with two endings. The Cold Pressing AU emerges out of Pathway 1. The alternative ending/chapter is available for anyone interested at alex-quine.livejournal.com by going to the Profile page and linking to the Fic Index.


End file.
